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“You still need to rest,” I insist. “It’s going to take all your energy to heal. You don’t need to be wasting any of it on silly things.”
“Are you going to hand-feed me, too?” she demands, a touch of sarcasm in her voice.
I shrug my shoulders. “Probably. Now stop arguing.”
She tugs at my hand, urging me to sit on the bed beside her. I do, carefully arranging myself so that I don’t bump her. Once I am positioned, she gently runs her hands over my face, stopping to spend extra time on my lip.
Her touch is so soft that I barely feel it, despite the swelling and the open wound there. It’s already begun to scab over, but still feels warm and tender.
“Who’s going to feed you?” she demands. “You shouldn’t have to forget your injuries to worry about mine.”
I grin at her, finding it funny that she would compare our situations at all. Mine are the most glancing of injuries, and demons heal faster than humans, anyway. By tomorrow morning, there’ll likely be no trace left of mine. Hers will sting for weeks.
“I’ll heal,” I reassure her, making a deliberate choice not to comment on how stubborn she is. “You need to focus on yourself for now. We have a future to think about.”
I rest my hand across her stomach. The reminder seems to serve its purpose, as she ceases her protests. She might not be willing to admit her weakness, and rest for her own good. But as a matter of care for the baby that could be growing in her stomach, she changes her tune.
“That’s true,” she admits, biting her lip thoughtfully. She finally settles back against the pillows, relaxing fully in the bed. I stand up to fix her blankets, tucking her in.
“You should close your eyes while I find some dinner,” I suggest.
She closes her eyes obediently, and yawns. “I’m not hungry.”
“Okay, dear,” I agree, smoothing the hair back from her face. I know that I’m going to go into the kitchen anyway, and at least have a snack waiting for when she’s ready.
But for now, I take a moment to gaze down at her. She lays there so peacefully, so serene. I’m glad that she’s back home, where I can take care of her. Where I can keep her safe and watch her with my own two eyes.
Speaking of safe, that reminds me. I have to look into getting security.
121
ANASTASIA
“They’re nearly better,” Volikan says, trying to be helpful. He’s kept his word to make sure I do as little as possible. Even as I sit in the tub, he kneels behind me, washing me tenderly.
It’s gotten a bit mind-numbing, the degree of laziness that he expects from me. Though I appreciate the sentiment, I might go out of my mind soon if he doesn’t let me start living a normal life again.
But I’ll wait to tell him that after the bath. Because I like that part. It sends the most delightful shivers up my spine.
I look down at my scars, nodding my agreement. “They don’t hurt anymore. You don’t have to be so careful,” I inform him. They’re completely closed over, and there’s no pain when he touches them.
The scars left behind are still fresh, of course. They zig and zag all over my body at strange, irregular angles, in angry red welts. It remains to be seen just how thorough the healing process will be.
A year from now, some of them may have faded from sight completely. Others will be light, feathery, silvery spiderwebs that can only be seen by a studious eye. Or they may linger on, loud and red, screaming to be noticed.
“I don’t mind them,” I decide suddenly, looking over them proudly. My heart swells a bit to remember how I earned them. Now that the danger has passed, I’ve made my peace with the story they tell.
Because it turns out the story isn’t about Drir’gen, and how he tried to invade me. The story is of my own resilience and survival; of the day I found out that I was stronger than I ever knew. The scars are my testimony, my proof.
“I like them too,” Volikan agrees. His voice sounds a bit relieved, as if he simply said the other words to make me feel better. He couldn’t care less if they are nearly gone, but he thought that it would be welcome news to me.
He leans over the tub, holding his forearm out to display some of his own scars. I extend my own arm, putting them side by side. We let our fingers walk across each other’s skin, comparing the marks.
Finally, he helps me out of the tub. Wrapping me in a soft, fluffy towel, he gently pats my skin dry. “We should put some ointment on you,” he declares. “They’ll start getting itchy soon, without it.”
I nod my agreement, and he leads me into the bedroom. Pulling the towel off with a dramatic flourish, he instructs me to lay down on the bed. His hands caress the back side of my body, working an oily treatment into the skin.
He doesn’t just dab it on lightly. Instead, he uses the opportunity to cover every inch of skin, even rubbing the muscles that ache from lying in bed all day. Soon, I feel so relaxed that I close my eyes, imagining I could fall asleep this way.
